Funny you're the broken one (but I'm the only one who needed saving)
by leo-fitz-is-a-gryffindor
Summary: "Her words pierce through him like hot blades, because that's all he's been asking for, to be able to talk to her and let her in, but his throat is still barred by the heavy remnants of his irritation and solitude and resentment." Fitz has to deal with the aftermath of what happened in the pod, and Simmons won't let him do that alone. Post-Season 1, Pre-Season 2. FitzSimmons.


_**Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., nor any Rihanna song.**_

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><p>"<em>Not really sure how to feel about it<em>

_Something in the way you move_

_Makes me feel like I can't live without you_

_It takes me all the way_

_I want you to stay"_

— _Stay_, Rihanna (feat. Mikky Ekko)

Fitz hates everything about it.

Absolutely everything, from the way the fabric hangs loose at his too-thin waist to the uneasy sensation of not being properly dressed. He's never been fond of tracksuit pants in the past, but now it's really becoming a nuisance. The most annoying part is that he doesn't even have a choice; daily physical therapy won't do him any good if he can't stimulate the right muscles in his usual pairs of jeans or cigarette trousers.

So he's reduced to wearing clothes that would only look appropriate on sturdier field agents, wobbling self-consciously around the Playground's premises on the lookout for any signs of people ready to mock him for his attire. Although Fitz knows he's being ridiculous, he can't help but feel like a wounded dog dreading yet another beating, ready to bare his teeth at the smallest threat.

And maybe, just maybe he would feel better if he actually _was_ provoked. Any kind of hostility would at least have the benefit of allowing him to blow off some steam rather than slowly smoldering on the inside. He'd be more than happy to jump at the chance to raise his voice and take out all his aggressions and anger on _anyone_—but of course, it's a vain hope. Everyone, every _bloody_ person he crosses path with treats him with the utmost caution, like he's made of crystal.

It's driving him crazy.

No one gets it. They're all overly jovial when he's in a room with them, flashing him bright smiles like the world is made of rainbows and butterflies. Even Skye's attempts to make him laugh seem somewhat forced and inevitably fall flat. Whether or not they want to admit it, his life _had_ permanently changed in that pod; their fake cheerfulness won't make him feel better any time soon.

The truth is he wouldn't be able to talk to anyone about it even if he wanted to; turning emotions into words has never been his _forte_, unlike Simmons.

_Simmons_.

The mere thought of her makes his throat constrict, his breath catching in his chest. The shift in their relationship since their misfortune at the bottom of the ocean is unmistakable—there's a rift between them, a gaping hole that he's afraid they'll never manage to cross. It is that precise idea, more that the possibility of him never regaining his full cognitive skills or the way he regularly fumbles to find his words, that makes him want to curl into a ball and sleep himself into oblivion.

There's no light in his darkness anymore, now; everything is gray, pallid, _cold_. No reprieve, no escape. Fitz has to deal with his malaise and his anxiety, and he has to do it without Simmons—alone. The worst thing is that they're not even ignoring each other—and why would they, really? But they're talking without speaking, hearing without listening.

"_I want everyone in the ground floor Briefing Room in ten,"_ says Coulson's croaking voice through the loudspeakers mounted in each room. _"You too, FitzSimmons."_

Although the sound of their names glued together makes Fitz cringe, a long-lost sense of elation spreads through his body. Coulson asking for the whole team to meet seems to indicate that things are just beginning to fall back into place, and Fitz is grateful for the distraction.

Eager to trade his sports clothing for his regular denims and shirt just to regain some normalcy, Fitz quickly undresses and settles for a blue button-down matching the color of his dazzling azure eyes.

It only takes him a couple of seconds to realize it's a bad idea, though. His hands start shaking by the second button, his movements irritatingly treacherous as he tries steadying his fingers, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing to tame his increasing heart rate. Eventually, he manages to fasten the _damn_ thing in fifty-seven seconds.

Fifty-seven seconds. Almost a full-blown minute. He can't believe it.

But of course, it gets _worse_. When he attempts to knot a dark blue tie around his neck, Fitz nearly breaks down right then and there. He can't do it. He just _can't_. Lifting his arms requires a huge effort on his part, and there's no way he can actually wrap the two ends of the tie together with the muscles in his forearms burning him as if he'd thrust them in a blazing fire.

Fitz clenches his jaw, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. The taste of copper in his mouth acts as an electroshock, triggering the rational side of his mind into life like a defense mechanism. This side begs him to take it easy, arguing that he should not get upset over something as trivial as a stupid _tie_. However, there's nothing logical about the feeling of frustration mixed with helplessness that he experiences, and he can almost pinpoint the exact moment when his ego is reduced to ashes.

But if there's one thing Leopold Fitz is good at, it's pretending. He really doesn't need people to take pity on him just because he's broken and weak—he _knows_ that already—, so he puts on a brave face, his expression devoid of any emotion as he stores the offending tie back in the wardrobe, settling on a cardigan in its place.

His feet shuffle on the ground as he exits his room to meet the team, and when six pairs of eyes focus on him, Fitz does his best to hide the fact that his pride stayed behind instead of coming along with him, effectively carving an empty pit in his chest where is heart is supposed to be.

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><p>Coulson's gatherings are becoming a regular occurrence. The war against HYDRA has just begun, and the new Director of the phantom agency that is now S.H.I.E.L.D. believes it's important to keep everyone updated on the current state of things.<p>

So every morning Coulson would summon them, and every morning, Fitz would struggle to tie one of his ties around his neck—to no avail. It simply requires too much synchronization and precision for the state he's in, and he can feel an ounce of his autonomy vanish with each aborted attempt.

But Fitz doesn't give up.

If that's what it takes, he will try again and again every morning of every day of his _bloody_ life. His persistence isn't born solely out of stubbornness, though; it's also the only way he has found to resist the pull of the darkness threatening the swallow him whole if he were to ever drop his guard.

"Do you know where I left my…"

Fitz jumps in surprise, not expecting _her_ to walk in on him in the slightest. It's no use trying to hide what he's doing so he freezes, rooted on the spot with the red tie unfastened around his neck, his hands shaking badly as he balls them into fists on the thin piece of fabric.

"Fitz?" Simmons whispers hesitantly in a careful voice.

He can't bring himself to meet her stare, his head bent down while all his limbs remain perfectly still. Yet, he doesn't need to look at her to know that her eyes are silently wandering over his body; he can feel them boring a hole right through him. The silence drags on until he finally relents, aware that she must have reached the right conclusion anyway.

"I canna tie i'," he says matter-of-factly, giving a tug on the article to make his point before raising his head toward her.

Their gazes lock, and Simmons doesn't blink for a good ten seconds. When her nose scrunches slightly and her lips press together into a thin line, Fitz understands she has connected the dots between what she's just witnessed and the fact that he hasn't been wearing a tie once since the meetings began.

It's amazing how they manage to be on the same wavelength and yet miles apart at the same time, he reflects.

"Why didn't you ask for help?" she nearly chides, though he's grateful for her effort to keep the reproach out of her voice.

Of course, Fitz has thought about going to someone more than once. But even though he's fairly sure no one would have had the rudeness to tease him about it, he is a _grown man_, and that alone sounds like a sufficient, self-explanatory justification in his mind.

"Fitz," Simmons repeats, but it's not a question anymore. She takes a tentative step in his direction. "Talk to me."

Her words pierce through him like hot blades, because that's all he's been asking for, to be able to talk to her and let her in, but his throat is still barred by the heavy remnants of his irritation and solitude and _resentment_. It's almost like he wants to punish her for not coming to him _sooner_, and he hates himself for it.

"I jus' wan' t' do i' myself, okay?" he snaps.

He expects her to recoil at his harsh tone, and the impulse to reach for her before she can run away from him forever is nearly too strong to overcome. However, Simmons is full of surprises; Fitz hears her sharp intake of breath just as she comes to stand right in front of him, faster than he would have thought humanly possible. A second later, her hands go to his neck and snatch the tie from his grasp, and Fitz is too stunned to stop her.

"Wha' are ye doin'?" he says in a ridiculously strangled voice.

Simmons' left eyebrow rises up slightly, eyes twinkling. "And they say you're a genius."

Fitz is not in the mood for jokes, though. Emerging from his torpor, his hands shot up to still hers, preventing her from knotting his tie for him. Her soft skin is warm under his fingers, and he wishes he could just enjoy this comforting sense of intimacy without any dread gnawing at his stomach.

"Ye dinna have t' do tha'," he utters grudgingly, not wanting her to move away from him but too proud to admit that he needs her.

Once again, Simmons proves she is not one to be easily put off when she shoves his hands away, reaffirming her grip on the tie. "Don't be silly, Fitz," she admonishes as she resumes tying the two ends together with renewed purpose.

"Simmons," he starts, but suddenly he's tired of fighting a battle he knows he can't win on his own, so he allows her to step up and carry a portion of his burden. _Just for a while_, he tells himself.

Her movements are slow, making him wonder if she's trying to delay the moment when she will have to let go. He keeps silent the entire time, watching her deft hands as they manipulate the fabric under his chin, dazed by their steady rhythm.

"You could have come to me," she states, and he forces himself to blink a few times so he can focus on her words. "There's no shame in it."

"I know there's no'!" he exclaims even though he doesn't, his pride somewhat stung.

"Then why didn't you?"

Her question unleashes a bitter taste in his mouth. What is he supposed to say? That his ego is too large for him to admit he's not self-sufficient? That he's filled with self-disgust because of his inability to even dress himself? That he misses her like hell and he's afraid he's damaged their relationship forever with confessions she didn't want to hear?

He can't tell her any of this. It would not be right, it would certainly not be _fair_, and he's past the point where he's willing to indulge in self-pity. Their relationship has come full circle, he realizes; they're back to the start, when he couldn't think of anything good enough to say to her.

Almost a decade, and nothing has changed.

Fitz must have kept silent for too long, because the next thing he knows Simmons gives a final tug to his tie, flattening it against his chest before allowing her hands to rest on his shoulders.

"What's on your mind?" she asks softly, and his heart is ready to explode in his chest.

He owes her the truth and he knows it—but that doesn't mean he has to be a prat about it. So he searches for a way to make her understand, various approaches echoing in his head before his mind returns on his earlier thoughts. Carefully choosing his words, Fitz licks his lips and meets her expectant gaze.

"I feel like we're back t' th' beginnin' o' th' Academy all over again," he confesses.

Fitz was hoping she would grasp his meaning, but as something close to alarm settles on her face, he understands something is very, _very_ wrong—and he can't, for the life of him, figure out what.

Although Simmons doesn't withdraw her hands from his shoulders, her entire posture shifts, suddenly getting more guarded and stiff like she's mentally protecting herself from some physical blow.

Fitz is at a total loss; he wishes he could say something to mend the harm he's just inadvertently caused, but how on earth is he supposed to fix something if he can't put his finger on what's _wrong_ in the first place? His own arms twitch with the need to reach out and embrace her, and it's all he can do to keep them pressed against his sides.

She refuses to look at him as she murmurs her next words so low he can barely hear them, her forehead a map made of wrinkles. "So you hate me?"

Fitz is so shocked, so thunderstruck by her question that all the air is sucked out of his lungs. Where the _hell_ did that come from?

"Wha'?" he splutters with a slack jaw, somewhat convinced he must have misunderstood her. Bending down a little to catch her attention, his eyes lock with hers, and he doesn't like in the slightest the apprehension and hurt he sees in them.

"You said you felt like we were back to the beginning of the Academy," she repeats as if it explains everything.

"Yeah, an'?"

Now she just seems plain confused, her brow furrowing at him. "You hated me back then," she claims with a nearly imperceptible shudder.

It feels like a punch in the guts. Fitz can't believe it. What she's saying makes no sense at all—is she really serious about this? The mere thought of him _loathing_ her is so preposterous he probably would have laughed if he didn't feel like she'd just slapped him.

"I never _hated_ ye! Why woul' ye even _think_ tha'?"

Now it's her turn to be slack-jawed. "Oh, come on, Fitz! You were pretty set on royally ignoring me right from the start— "

"—Yeah, because I was tryin' t' fin' somethin' clever t' say t' ye—"

"—Always throwing me dirty looks after you got an answer right in class—"

"—I was hopin' t' bloody _impress_ ye, for Chris's sake!"

Fitz sucks in a gulp of air, as fast as he can so he's able to match Simmons's flow—he would never admit how much he had missed the way their sentences overlapped—, but she stops talking without warning, her face blank.

Then, the worst thing that can happen happens; she _giggles_.

"Leopold Fitz," she manages to get out between two bursts of laughter. "_That's_ how you impress a woman? Seriously?"

She chuckles again, and Fitz wishes he could disappear on the spot. Reaching behind his head to scratch at his neck, his mind scrambles for some sort of clever comeback.

"Yeah, well—I'll admi' I was socially awkwar' back then, bu'—"

"Because that much has changed," Simmons interrupts, trying to hide her smirk and failing miserably.

"Alrigh', sure, make fun o' me all ye wan'," he grumbles, which earns him another laugh from her.

He wants to be indignant, he really does—but he just can't bring himself to be offended, not when she seems so carefree and young and _happy_, not when it's the first time he's seen her smile for _weeks_, not when he's given the privilege to witness it.

Her grin is contagious, and Fitz would have willingly given in if it weren't for the things he needed off his chest. "Look, Jemma," he says, deliberately using her first name so she understands none of this is about putting the blame on her. "My poin' is, I was defini'ely _no'_ hatin' ye back then. I just dinnae know wha' t' tell ye."

She watches him intently, all sober again, her hazel eyes fixed on his as if she's trying to decipher some sort of secret code.

"An' after all these years, I realize I still dinna know wha' t' say", he confesses as he averts his gaze. "I'm still tha' scare' wee lad who's too afrai' t' take th' firs' step."

True to his words, Fitz feels very much like a little boy craving both comfort and reassurance. In the past, he always managed to find it in Simmons, but what if she's weary of being his emotional tether? She's stunning, she's brilliant, she's as glorious as the sun—why would she even burden herself with someone as useless as Fitz?

"Fitz." Her tone is far more tender that he expected, but it's not enough to put him out of his misery.

All of his buried doubts, all of his hidden ghosts are coming back to him with the force of a train and he knows he's close to loosing it, but then her hand slides up the side of his neck, cupping his jaw while her thumb carefully strokes the hollow of his scruffy cheek.

His eyes shot up to meet hers.

"I'm so sorry," she admits in a low voice, and it's all Fitz can do not to break in her arms right then and there. "I haven't been taking care of you."

And then she steps forward, pressing herself fully against his body before peppering his face with kisses, following the same path she had back in the medical pod—neck, cheek, temple, forehead—only slower, because none of them is _dying_ and they're both _here_ and they're _together_.

Fitz's throat immediately constricts, his arms moving of their own volition as they come to encircle her waist, and he wills himself not to cry. "Is okay," he murmurs close to her ear.

"No, it's not," counters Simmons, dropping another kiss on his jawline before gently resting her forehead against his own, their breaths mingling. She closes her eyes and so does he, relishing in the realness of her being there.

Fitz has never felt more blessed.

Simmons' other hand glides up his neck until she cradles both sides of his face, her thumbs skimming tenderly across his skin. "I'm sorry," she repeats in a loving voice. "I'm sorry I've been so oblivious to you. You're my best friend in the world, and it means something—it means _everything_," she corrects herself.

Fitz can't help but feel a sliver of hope pass through him as she quotes the words she said to him back in the pod. Maybe, just _maybe_, he hasn't ruined everything with his admission. Not yet able to gather his thoughts in a coherent sentence, he sighs softly and nods against her.

They allow themselves to remain in their soothing embrace for a few moments, Fitz ignoring the burning pain in his legs as he takes note of all the points of contact between their two bodies, basking in her comforting warmth.

Eventually, Simmons draws back just enough so she can look him in the eye, her hands still on his cheeks. "You know you can come to me whenever you need to, right? For anything."

Fitz offers her an optimistic smile, one she quickly matches. "Yeah."

"I'm here," Simmons promises. "I'm not going anywhere." And then she leans in, pressing her lips right at the corner of his mouth in a gentle kiss.

Fitz freezes, his mind going blank. Simmons moves back a little, and their eyes lock, and his arms are still around her waist, and the atmosphere changes, and God he could _swear_ she just glanced at his lips, and—

"Coulson said ten minutes, and it's been almost twenty by now."

Fitz jumps about two feet in the air, his heart beating hard in his chest and his neck reddening by the second, while a surprised "_Oh!_" slips out of Simmons' mouth. They turn to find May standing in the entrance, studying them curiously with an arched eyebrow.

"Jesus, _woman!_" screeches Fitz. When May's eyebrow curves itself into an impossible angle, the Scottish engineer quickly backpedals. "Er, I mean—ye gave us qui'e a scare, is all." _Please, don't snap my neck_, he silently prays.

"Yes," stammers Simmons. "We were not doing anything, anyway—uh, not anything _'anything'_, but—no, no, it was clearly not—what I mean to say is—"

Getting a bit more horrified at each of her words, Fitz shoots her a glare conveying a very clear meaning.

_Stop. Talking. Now._

Simmons gulps audibly, but effectively shuts her mouth.

"I'm sure," replies the older Agent, amusement in the upturned corner of her thin lips. "We'll be waiting for you."

Fitz expects her to either chastise or tease them, but May has the decency to keep her thoughts to herself as she disappear in the corridor, silent as a shadow. Simmons turns an apologetic glance toward Fitz, who just shakes his head in disbelief.

True, the moment is gone, but Fitz is convinced it's for the best. Whatever was about to happen between him and Simmons—and he wasn't making any assumptions, for a change—could wait until after things were more settled. They have time on their side, so he's willing to wait.

However, he can't see a single reason why he shouldn't take hold of Simmons' hand to tug her down the hallway with him, and so he does, offering her a smile while intertwining their fingers with renewed confidence. She walks a bit too close to him, forcing their shoulders to bump several times, but Fitz finds he couldn't care less.

And when, right before they enter the Briefing Room, she squeezes his hand, he squeezes back.

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><p>The meeting doesn't last long, but Fitz's mind isn't focused enough on it anyway to notice; the only thing that matters is Simmons sitting in the chair next to his, close enough for their arms to brush where they're resting on the table and their thighs to touch underneath.<p>

When Coulson dismiss everyone, Fitz casts her a searching glance, still careful of the precarious balance they'd just managed to regain. She grins wordlessly, her hand lightly pressing against the small of his back until he starts walking.

They reach Fitz's room without really thinking about it, ignoring the knowing looks from their teammates in their unspoken eagerness to reconnect with each other. He stands aside to let her in before closing the door behind him, and suddenly they're standing face to face, surrounded by a thick bubble made of trust and contentment and _affection_.

Their earlier confrontation has drained Fitz, both physically and mentally, and he can already feel himself dozing off a bit even though it's still the middle of the afternoon, his stare unconsciously drifting toward his bed.

"Are you tired?" inquires Simmons in a fond voice. "I can leave, if you want."

One look at her is enough for him to know she doesn't really want to go, but is just trying to give him some space if that's what he wishes, so he tries not to over-analyze her suggestion and turn it into a rejection.

He's about to deny her when he's struck by how exhausted she seems to be herself.

"Wha's this, Jem?" he asks quietly, reaching out a hand so his fingers can gently trace the dark patch under her left eye. "Have ye been sleepin' okay la'ely?"

Simmons's shoulders drop a little as she intuitively leans her head against his palm. Fitz can tell she's debating with herself, which causes him to clench his jaw in anticipation; it only takes her a few seconds to come up with a decision.

"I've been having nightmares," she utters in an even, controlled voice.

Fitz's mouth twists in sadness, because he's been having them too, because they wake him up every _bloody_ night, because his best friend had to go through the same agony and he was _not_ there to help.

A deep feeling a shame courses through him as he remembers a night from a few months ago, a night right after she'd done something equally brave and stupid, a night she'd told him he was the hero. He hadn't been able to keep the monsters at bay in his sleep, seeing her plunging headfirst to her death over and over again. He'd crawled into her bunk that night, unable to keep himself away from her, and she'd hold him as tightly as he'd latched onto her, caressing his locks while murmuring soothing words in his ear.

And when her turn came, he hadn't been up to it.

"It's alright, Fitz."

But of course, it's not. "_Don'_," he growls straightaway, his body suddenly rigid. He's so mad at himself he can almost picture the streams of hot remorse spreading in his veins. He has to find a way to make this _right_.

Fitz catches Simmons' glance, detects something between worry and vulnerability in it, and all hesitation is gone when he gathers her in his arms, hugging her to his chest with what he hopes is gentle steadiness.

"Now who shoul' have come t' whom?" he sighs, but his heart is not in the reprimand. He tightens his embrace and allows her to burry her face in the crook of his neck, tilting his head so he can rest it against hers. His hands are leisurely tracing random patterns up and down her back, one of them eventually settling at her nape so his fingers can scrap the base of her skull.

"I haven' been takin' care o' ye, either. I'm sorry," he whispers in her hair.

He pauses for a second, and then draws back just enough to catch her eyes, his arms still curled around her shoulders. "Le' me fix this?"

Her hands still gripping his midriff, the fabric of his shirt bunching a bit in her loosely closed fists, she beams at him in a way that makes his heart swell. "Of course, Fitz."

He's sure he's grinning like a perfect idiot, but who cares? She's here, she's in his arms and she's willing to stay; he couldn't ask for anything better. Acting on impulse, Fitz leans in and brushes his lips against her forehead in a silent promise before tugging her with him toward his bed.

Neither of them wants to split apart for something as trivial as changing into more comfortable clothes; they both simply get rid of their shoes, Simmons removing her jumper so she's left in her beige silk blouse while Fitz goes to take off his tie—the tie she'd fastened for him. That thought makes his hands still, pondering for a second before he decides to only slacken the knot, letting the article of clothing dangle loosely around his neck.

When he turns, Simmons is studying him intensely, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth as her eyes twinkle. Fitz smirks back as he sinks onto the bed, scooting toward the wall to leave her a decent amount of space. Once he's comfortably settled on his back, he raises his face toward her and opens his arms. "C'mere?"

She obliges, gently lowering herself next to him before shifting on her side and snuggling closer. Her head finds its way onto his shoulder, pillowing itself against his collarbone while one of her legs wedges between both of his, her ankle hooking around his shin.

"I've missed that," she admits in a sleepy voice as she drapes her right arm across his chest, tucking her hand below his armpit.

Feeling warmer than he has in the entire last month, Fitz languidly curls around her, using one arm around her waist to bring her even closer, breathing her in. She smells of cinnamon and lavender with a hint of ginger, a peculiar yet familiar scent he'd come to associate with contentment and shelter.

"Me too, Jem."

When she starts nuzzling against his neck, the arm he has around her shoulders moves a bit to allow him to card his fingers through her hair, alternatively stroking her smooth curls and playing with the strands. Fitz would have been perfectly happy to freeze that moment and live in it for the rest of his life.

As he feels sleep approaching, Fitz drops a light kiss on her temple. Before he can think too much about it, he awkwardly cranes his neck to softly press two more kisses against her forehead, tightening his hold around her slim frame and earning a pleased sigh from her.

"Just ge' some res', okay?" he whispers as he tucks her head under his chin. "I've go' ye now, baby girl. Go t' sleep."

And in the haven of their embrace, they both do.

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><p><strong><em>AN: Thanks for reading! This story is based on a recent headcanon (Fitz not being able to tie his ties anymore due to damaged motor skills) that was discussed in a post published on Tumblr by skyepoots. And I dedicate it to jehphg, who asked me to write it._**

**_Once again, a round of applause for Faith (Meadowlark27), AKA the greatest friend and beta ever, who managed to review this in time for the Season 2 premiere. You're the best._**


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